


Moderation Itself

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-24
Updated: 2007-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So just leave, then, if that's what you fuckin' want to do—" Dean said, and Sam slammed his hand down on the table and yelled, "Yeah, well maybe I will," and Dean said, "Fine," and Sam said, "You fucking asshole, I hope you rot in hell," and the next thing Dean knew, it was two days later and he was driving toward the Gulf, alone in the Impala for the first time in what felt like about ten million years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moderation Itself

"So just _leave_, then, if that's what you fuckin' want to do—" Dean said, and Sam slammed his hand down on the table and yelled, "Yeah, well maybe I _will_," and Dean said, "_Fine_," and Sam said, "You fucking asshole, I hope you rot in hell," and the next thing Dean knew, it was two days later and he was driving toward the Gulf, alone in the Impala for the first time in what felt like about ten million years.

Stupid Sam and his stupid—if he thought he could have his normal fucking life, he was _delusional_. Dean gave him three weeks tops, and then Sam would come crawling back, too guilty and vision-ridden to stay away for long.

But two weeks passed and there was no Sam, and then a month, and then two months, and three, and after a while Dean stopped counting—he stopped waiting for Sam to show up. He'd never really learned how to hope for things. If Sam was gone, fine, that was it—Dean could do it alone, he didn't need anybody else. He had his car and his goddamn inborn charm, and he'd gotten by on not much else for _years_, all those years Sam had been away for the first time.

_First time_, Dean thought, like this was the second time, like this was anything like Sam's first leave of absence—like Sam would come back, at some point; like there was a limit on how long he would be gone, a handful of years instead of the rest of their goddamn lives.

Looking back, Dean couldn't even remember what had started it—something stupid, probably, Sam clipping his toenails on the bed or leaving his damp towel slung over the doorknob—the kind of dumb, annoying shit that wasn't a big deal under ordinary circumstances, but that made Dean want to murder his brother in his sleep after a few months of close quarters and zero privacy. He'd probably overreacted a little, said something about Sam not having to stick the fuck around now that the Demon was dead, and maybe Sam was having a bad week or was tired of Dean's delightful company or something—whatever it was, it ended badly, and Dean couldn't forget the way Sam's face had looked, red and strained, while he matched each of Dean's bellows for volume and creative, improbable swearing.

And then Dean woke up the next morning and all of Sam's stuff was gone—gone from the motel room and from the car, like he'd never existed. The only thing he left was one of his t-shirts, accidentally mixed in with Dean's clothes, and Dean wore it a few times before he got sick of himself and tore the thing up for rags.

He liked being on the road alone. He could eat whatever he wanted to without listening to Sam's bitching about calcified arteries or whatever fucking thing he was worrying about on any given day—vitamin K or cellular disagreeableness. Dean didn't know anything about nutrition. He figured he'd die young anyway, so he might as well eat all the goddamn fried mozzarella sticks he wanted to while he was still around to enjoy them.

He also got laid a lot more. It was hard to really get into the groove of things when Sam was waiting in the coffee shop across the street, or scowling at his laptop in the bar while Dean fucked the girl in the back seat of the Impala. With Sam gone, he could get as much tail as he wanted, whenever the fuck he wanted it. The first week, he picked up a girl at the goddamn _library_, of all places, and kept her in the motel room for an entire afternoon, eating slowly at her little pink cunt until she couldn't even form words anymore, and then he fucked her hard and careless, riding her across the slick polyester bedspread.

She was just the first. He screwed ten different chicks in six days, which wasn't quite his record but was pretty close. Once, he didn't even bother cleaning up in between, and fucked the second girl with the scent of the first one's pussy still rich and musky on his fingers. It was ridiculously indulgent—he felt like he was drowning in it, dying happy, and he came harder than he had in a while, his hips bucking helplessly while the girl moaned and clawed at his shoulders.

He didn't know any of their names.

In Tulsa, he let a girl fuck him with a big strap-on dildo, and had the best orgasm of his fucking life, right there on the shitty motel mattress with its shitty broken springs, his forehead pressed against the headboard while he gasped and gasped and shuddered out the last waves of it.

"Huh, so you like that," the girl said, smug, and Dean licked at her nipple piercings and muttered, "Do it again."

He'd never thought about cock much, before that—sure, he'd sucked a few dicks when he was a teenager, just trying it out, but then he'd gotten distracted by the head cheerleader and had been devotedly chasing women ever since. But after Tulsa, it was all he could think about: some faceless guy pinning him to the bed and fucking him stupid, fat cock up Dean's ass, and he couldn't keep his hands off himself. He had _chafing_. It needed to stop.

He picked up a guy in a bar in Pittsburgh, about three months after Sam had taken off for god-knew-where, and brought him back to the motel room. The guy was shorter than Dean by a couple of inches, and he wore glasses, his hair falling into his face—pretty in an almost girlish way, but when he took off his shirt, he had gym-toned abs, and he whimpered when Dean dropped to his knees.

"I want you to fuck me," Dean said, looking up, the guy's cock in his fist.

The guy went red all ever and ducked his head, smiling, and said, "Yeah, we can do that."

And, yeah, Dean was drunk, but that didn't change the fact that what's-his-face _really_ knew what he was doing, all long fingers and longer cock and hands on Dean's hips pulling him backward at just the right angle, and Dean shot all over the bedspread and his fingers and the guy's fingers, and then hung there, panting, while the guy fucked him through the aftershocks.

"Hey, thanks," Dean said, after, pulling on his shorts, "this was great, see you around sometime, maybe—" and the guy was out of the room before he even knew what was going on.

Dean dug out his bottle of bottom-shelf bourbon and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels until he found his favorite hospital drama, and then he lay on the bed and rode his post-coital high. His ass felt sore and open, and he slid his free hand down into his shorts, rubbing at his swollen hole.

He couldn't believe he'd been missing out for so many years—he could've been having this since he was fifteen, and _Christ_ but he had a lot of lost time to make up for.

After half a bottle, calling Sam started to sound like a real good idea. He didn't even know if Sam still had the same goddamn cell phone, but he was drunk and sex-happy, and maybe Sam was just waiting for Dean to admit that he was lonely, that he really _couldn't_ do it without Sam, that he'd take it all back if Sam would just stop being such a stupid asshole and _come home_—

He sent a text message. _got fucked, loved it. come home u can have a try_—just fucking with Sam, the way they always had, "You're such a lovely boy, c'mere and gimme a kiss," and Sam pushing Dean away but laughing, saying, "You're a freak, Dean." He meant it as an apology, kind of—_look, Sam, nothing's changed, you can come back now._

He didn't get a reply until three days later. He'd passed out early after a tough hunt, still wearing his blood-soaked clothes, and when he checked his phone in the morning, he had new voicemail. He dialed in, yawning and rubbing at his lower back, and then Sam's voice was in his ear, slurred and too loud, "Don't you—fuckin' tease me like that, Dean, god damn it, you know how I feel—about you—you're always tryin' to, to confuse me or—" Sam broke off and sucked in a shuddering breath. "This is why I left in the first place, I can't—"

The message clicked off, then, and Dean sat there with his phone in the hand, staring unseeing at the ugly wallpaper, his heart going so fast it felt like it was trying to beat right out of his chest.

***

Dean drove 800 miles the next day, fast along the interstate, with the windows rolled all the way down, like he could blow Sam's words right out of his skull. It had turned into summer at some point, when he was busy fucking his was through half the population of the country east of the Mississippi.

He'd spent the last three months doing his goddamn best to not think about Sam at all, and he'd succeeded pretty well, but now it was like Sam's message had made Dean incapable of _not_ thinking about him. He found one of Sam's books buried under the front seat; buying coffee made him think about the fancy flavor-shot lattes Sam liked to drink; eating breakfast, the waitress offered him a choice of hash browns or home fries, and Dean picked the hash browns because that would've made Sam purse his lips and say something about trans fat, and then Dean would've kicked him under the table, and Sam would've thrown a few sugar packets at Dean.

He fucked a girl that night, slumped on the back seat while she sat in his lap and rode him enthusiastically, his hands up her little frilly skirt and her halter top hanging down around her waist, his mouth on her tits. She squirmed around like a porn star and made a little squeaking noise when Dean thumbed her clit, and it was _great_, she was great, and he didn't think about Sam for a whole half hour, until she'd put her clothes back in order, kissed him, and left.

He sat there for a long time after she'd gone, his limp dick hanging out of his pants, trying to figure out what had changed, when Sam had started feeling like—like _that_, and if Dean had done anything to make him want it, if he'd fucked Sam up in some essential way—because Christ, it wasn't _normal_, Sam wasn't supposed to want that, and if Dean was responsible for it, he'd never be able to forgive himself. He missed Sam like a limb, phantom pains every time he turned to say something and Sam wasn't there to listen, but if Sam wouldn't come back unless Dean gave him—_that_—well, Dean couldn't do it. He didn't want that sin on his hands.

The next day, he hit Florida. He spent three days in Jacksonville, killing a water spirit like something out of Greek mythology, and then he was on the road again, passing through Georgia and Alabama and on up into Tennessee. Next thing he knew, it'd been a week since he'd gotten laid, and then two. It wasn't that he didn't have opportunities—hell, he was Dean Winchester, chicks practically fell onto his dick every time he walked into a bar—he just couldn't stop thinking about Sam, and how Sam apparently wanted to fuck Dean so bad that he'd up and _left_—Sam, his baby brother, who Dean had spent his whole fucking life trying to protect.

He sent Sam a text message. _u meant it?_

Sam didn't reply.

A couple days later, Dean was jerking off in the shower, dutifully, taking care of the plumbing. He'd pulled out one of his favorite spank-bank fantasies: hot motel clerk leaning over the counter, tits spilling out of her top, and letting Dean peel off her bra and rub his dick on her nipples, her hand busily stirring her cunt. He was really getting into it, imagining the girl going to her knees and licking at him, and then something clicked over in his brain and it was _Sam_, there, looking up at him through his floppy hair, sucking hungrily on the head of Dean's cock, and Dean came so hard he almost brained himself on the showerhead.

"Fuck, fuck," he muttered, getting out and drying off with a towel, his feet skidding on the linoleum. He did _not_ just think about that—it was a fluke, he'd just been thinking about it because he was so freaked out; it didn't mean anything, it didn't mean he _wanted_ that from Sam; it was just his subconscious playing tricks on him, or maybe an imp or something—some supernatural bullshit trying to get him off-kilter.

He salted down the whole goddamn room and did every protection spell he knew, but that night he dreamed about Sam pressing him into the mattress and kissing him. Their bodies weren't touching anywhere except Sam's hands on Dean's shoulders and Sam's mouth on Dean's mouth, kissing him deep and slow, his tongue pressing in and taking over, and Dean woke with a gasp, his cock throbbing hard in his boxers. He shoved a hand down and came almost instantly, back arching.

_fuck you_, he texted Sam in the morning—fuck Sam for making him think about it, for putting the idea in his head, where it was apparently taking root and growing into something horrible and strange. Dean felt dirty and _sick_, perverted, and he got in the car and just _drove_, aimlessly, passing through states without even noticing. When he realized he was heading toward California, he got off at the next exit and turned back east.

He was probably going to get a fucking ulcer.

The worst part was how badly he still wanted Sam to come back—despite everything, it _ached_, deep in his body, the absence of Sam like the absence of some vital organ, something necessary for breath and ass-kicking and life. But he couldn't—he _couldn't_. If Sam was going to hold it over Dean's head, the one thing Dean could do to get his brother back—he _couldn't_.

August was five months, and Dean got incredibly, stupidly wasted and let a guy fuck him in the bathroom of a run-down bar in Albuquerque, and it was amazing—it was always amazing, and he went back to the motel room feeling wired and jittery, alcohol and sex combining to make his head spin. His cell phone was sitting on the nightstand, mocking him, and he picked it up without thinking about it, fumbled at the buttons until he found Sam's number.

It rang for about a billion hours, and then the voicemail clicked on, Sam's voice saying, _You've reached Sam. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you,_ and then it beeped.

Dean took a deep breath and let it all flow out of him: "Sammy, Sam, I miss you, please, you need to come back, I'm so fucking tired of doing this by myself, and I _miss_ you, I'll—I'll do anything, just, please, just _come home_."

He woke up in the morning with a throbbing head and the phone digging imprints into his spine. He stumbled to the bathroom for water and a long piss, and when he came back, his phone was vibrating with a new message.

_Not when you're drunk_, it said, and the only reason Dean didn't throw the phone across the room was because he really didn't feel like having to buy a new one.

_that's not why_, he texted back, and forced himself to go take a shower instead of waiting for Sam's response.

There was voicemail. "I'm not trying to force you to do this, Dean, okay, what I said—Christ. I miss you, too, okay, even though you're an obnoxious asshole and most of the time I want to punch you in the face—but I don't want you to think that you have to. That you have to do something you don't want to in order to get me to come back. Okay?"

Dean texted, _you want to come back?_, and went for coffee.

_Yes_, Sam texted back, and Dean sent him the address of the motel he was staying at, and then walked the three blocks to the movie theater before he paced right through the cheap carpeting.

He bought a ticket for the first thing listed on the marquee—he didn't even know what the fuck it was, and he sat in the front row of the theater, too close to see anything without tilting his head way back, and he spent the whole two hours thinking about Sam, and how Sam said he was coming back, and how he _said_ he didn't want anything from Dean but how he might leave again if Dean didn't give it to him anyway—how Dean's whole purpose in life was to keep Sam happy, to do whatever it took to keep Sam safe and happy and nearby.

He could do it. It wouldn't be that bad—friction was friction, and Dean loved Sam more than he'd loved anybody else in his entire goddamn life, and he'd just close his eyes and think of England or whatever—and, oh Christ, who was he kidding, he wanted it, it was all he'd been thinking about for the past two months—the wrongest thing he'd ever wanted, but he'd been a sinner for a long time, and sometimes having a thing was worth the price of it.

Sam was sitting on the hood of the Impala when Dean got back to the motel, hands shoved in the pockets of his green hoodie, his duffel sitting on the asphalt of the parking lot.

"How'd you get here so fast," Dean said.

"I, uh, I was in Flagstaff," Sam said, shrugging.

"Huh," Dean said. His heart was beating faster, from anticipation and the sheer joy of seeing Sam again, healthy and in one piece. "So what were you doing there?"

"Working in a library," Sam said. "It sucked. I just—I needed a break, Dean, it was too much for me. I shouldn't have run off like that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Dean said, stepping forward into the vee of Sam's legs, placing his hands on Sam's broad thighs.

"Dean," Sam said, leaning backward, "you don't have to do this, I don't—"

"I want to," Dean said, leaning forward, one hand in Sam's hair to keep him from squirming away, and then their mouths were touching, dry and unfamiliar, and it was really fucking strange to be kissing his own brother in a parking lot in Albuquerque, but Dean went with it, opening his mouth a little, and Sam grunted and grabbed at Dean's shirt and kissed him fiercely, just like in Dean's dream, except _better_. Better, because it was real, and it was _Sam_, and Dean wrenched himself away, terrified by the enormous longing that was making a place for itself inside his belly.

"Dean," Sam said again, and Dean said, "No, no, it's okay," and raked one hand through his hair, breathing hard. "Okay," he said, "okay," and yanked at the front of Sam's hoodie until Sam got off the car and followed Dean into the motel room.

Dean stood there and let Sam strip off his clothes, his big hands so careful, and he let Sam put him down on the bed. He wrapped his arms around the pillow and listened to the sounds of Sam undressing: zipper, other zipper, thud of boots. He was hard, leaking onto the sheets, and he rocked his hips against the mattress, testing the waters.

"Christ," Sam mumbled, climbing onto the bed, and Dean closed his eyes and focused on breathing while Sam worked three slick fingers inside, stroking carefully and then _twisting_, and Dean couldn't help the noises he was making, little whimpers escaping from his throat like he was a cheerleader getting felt up at the prom.

"Okay," Sam said, "are you ready?"

"Stop _talking_ so goddamn much," Dean said, tilting his ass into the sweet burn of Sam's fingers.

"Hey," Sam said, soothing, and then his dick was nudging at Dean, fucking _huge_, bigger than anything else Dean had put up there, and Dean tried to twist away but it was too late by then—Sam was pushing inside, working himself carefully into Dean, and all Dean could do was lie there and clutch at the pillow while Sam split him wide open, his whole body yielding to take Sam in.

"Oh god," Dean said, his voice rising up into a whine.

"It's okay," Sam said, rubbing at his lower back, "Dean, it's okay, just give it a minute—"

"No, it's _good_," Dean said, and pushed back against Sam, wanting it—god help him, he _wanted_ it, and it was one thing to jerk off thinking about this when Sam was hundreds of miles away, but it was another thing entirely to have Sam actually _there_ and panting and nosing at the back of Dean's neck, shuddering hard as he fucked Dean in long, slow strokes.

"I'm sorry," Sam gasped, "Dean, I'm so sorry—"

"Shut the fuck up, you bastard, I _want_ you to," Dean said, and all this honesty was wearing him the fuck out. He twisted his hips, wanting more, and Sam gave it to him, his body huge and sweaty against Dean's back, one hand pressed to the mattress by Dean's head, holding Sam up, and the other hand clutching hard at Dean's hip. Dean was too hot all over, sweating and anxious, and he could feel his orgasm building in him already, threatening to spill over.

"I'm gonna—Christ, _Sam_," Dean said, and squeezed tight and let loose, his toes curling with it, half of his brain cells dying in one fell swoop.

"Oh my god," Sam said, his hips twitching all uneven, and he moaned long and low and shot inside Dean, sudden warmth spreading, and Dean shivered hard, feeling it.

Sam collapsed onto the mattress, like a tree falling, his body twisting away from Dean's. Dean turned with him, slinging one leg over Sam's, sliding one hand up Sam's sweat-slick belly.

"Dean," Sam breathed, blinking at him, hair in his eyes.

"Don't you say it," Dean warned, and Sam rolled his eyes and leaned forward to kiss Dean, his mouth softer now, sweet and easy as he sucked on Dean's lower lip.

Sam said, "I want to—" and reached around and pressed two fingers back into Dean, all the way to the knuckle, and Dean arched his back and moaned with it, Sam's mouth slipping down to curve against Dean's chin, a smile that Dean felt in every fucking molecule of his body.

"Next time you feel the need to be a fucking drama queen and go running off into the sunset, as least call me to let me know you're alive, okay?" Dean said, trying to pretend that Sam's fingers weren't destroying and remaking him, tearing him down to his foundation.

"I can do that," Sam said, biting along Dean's jaw and rubbing his fingers _right there_.

"God," Dean gasped, "God, fuck, _okay_," and there was a feeling bubbling up in his chest that he was afraid to put a name to, too fragile and new to risk examining it too closely, so he just turned his head and kissed Sam, again and again, Sam smiling stupidly against Dean's mouth.


End file.
